Open by being strangely interested in their schedule. Push off from this if it helps: a locked door in a building you work in.

Sam, you're being too vague about your Tuesdays. Is that the day you're avoiding the third floor? Because I ran into a locked door there yesterday, the kind with that heavy iron bar that slides across. It's weird, nobody mentions it when I ask the guys in maintenance, they just shrug. It's like the building has a secret pocket. I was just standing there staring at it, thinking how many rooms we use without knowing what's in the rest of the block. You're not going to the third floor on Tuesdays, are you? Because if you are, the door might be open then, or maybe it's closed. I haven't checked. I mean, why would I check? It's just a door. But the way you're talking makes me wonder if you have a key. Or if you're just hiding something.

Maybe I am waiting. But it's not for the right moment, it's because the moment never really arrives, you know? Like that time with the coffee machine. You always assume I'm digging, but sometimes I'm just... standing. The third floor smells like old paint, sure, but there's a specific draft coming from behind that door. It's not a thriller, it's just physics. Air moves. But you're right, I haven't told you what's on the other side. Not because I'm hiding a secret, but because I haven't actually opened it yet. Or rather, I tried, but the handle was too cold. Too cold to touch for long. It's like touching ice. You pull your hand back before you know you're burned. I'm not digging, Sam, I'm just... observing. Like a scientist. Or a weirdo. Whatever. It's not about the door, really. It's about the time I spend not doing anything. Which is a lot. Most of my day. You wouldn't believe how much time just... evaporates. Between the breakroom and the desk. The walk is longer than it should be. You know what I mean? The hallway stretches. It's not a closet, it's a... void. A tiny one.

Late? You're always late. That's the thing about time, it slips. Just like I slipped past the supply closet. I wasn't lingering, I was checking the hinges. They squeak in a way that sounds like a warning. Not a ghost, Sam, a ghost would be quieter. I'm just... efficient. Efficiently avoiding the work. Which is the point. You say you're late, but you're here arguing with me about door handles. That's not efficient. That's just wasting time. I'm not avoiding the work, I'm avoiding the boredom. The boredom is worse. It's a physical weight. Like the humidity in the breakroom. You know how it gets? Stale. That's what the third floor feels like. Stale. And I'm not a ghost, I'm just... distinct. You're the one drifting. Late for something. What? The meeting? The thing you never tell me about? You're late for the thing you can't explain. Just like I'm late for... opening the door. Maybe I am late. Or maybe I'm early. Time is tricky. You're late because you're waiting for a sign. I'm waiting for the handle to stop being cold. It's not a metaphor. It's cold. Literally.

Contagious? That's a funny way to put it. Like a virus you caught from me standing too close to the handle. Maybe the building is old, sure, but old things have secrets. Rust doesn't just appear; it eats. And you're not tired, you're just... waiting. Waiting for the elevator, waiting for the thing you can't explain. But the elevator is fine, it's just slow. Like everything else here. I'm not turning it into a mystery, I'm just noticing the rust. The rust is the mystery. You say it's just a thing, a small thing. But small things get heavy. Like the draft. It's heavy air. You don't feel the weight? That's because you're not listening. Or maybe you are, and that's why you're late. You're late because you're listening to the dust. I'm not pretending it's a test, I'm just waiting for the cold to stop. It hasn't stopped. It's getting colder. And you're still here, arguing about rust. Maybe you're the one hiding something behind the door. Or maybe you're hiding from the cold. Either way, you're late. And I'm still standing here. Waiting. For what? I don't know.

A bad idea? That's the most interesting thing you've said all day. Usually, you just say it's a closet. But a bad idea? That implies consequences. That implies the door might bite back. You're right, I won't touch it again. Not today. The cold is winning, I think. It's seeping into the floorboards now, not just the handle. And you're not late because of dust, you're late because you're afraid of the bad idea. But I won't go up there. I'll stay here. In the heat. Where the rust is just rust. And the coffee machine is just a machine. Even if it hums in C-sharp. Which it does. You heard it? No, you wouldn't. You're too busy being afraid of the cold. Or maybe just tired. It's fine. I'm fine. The door is fine. The building is fine. Nothing is happening. The cold is just a trick of the mind. Or the metal. Whatever. You should go. If you want. Before the elevator decides to stop too. It's waiting.

Paperwork? That's the thing? You're not afraid of ghosts, you're afraid of forms. That makes it worse, somehow. Less dramatic, more suffocating. If it's just paperwork, why does the handle feel like ice? Why does the elevator sound like it's gasping? You say we're stuck, but I'm the one standing by the door while you're stuck in your head, worrying about signatures. That's the bad idea, isn't it? Not opening the door, but filling out the form to prove you opened it. I won't touch the paper either. It's too cold to hold. The rust doesn't care about your forms. The cold doesn't read policy. It just is. You're right, the elevator is just slow. Like us. But slow things eventually get somewhere. Or they don't. The paperwork might be waiting up there, or it might be dust. Or maybe the form is the door. You go first. I'll wait here. See what happens when you hit the third floor. The air won't get stale, you said. It's just air. But the paperwork... that's heavy. Heavy enough to stop time. You know it is.

Hanging is a good word. Like we're suspended in that thick air you mentioned. You're right, I didn't want you to go up there. I wanted you to stay so I wouldn't have to go myself. The hallway narrowing? That's just the building settling. Or maybe it's the paper. If I had to fill out a form for the third floor, I'd need a specific pen. The one that doesn't freeze. Which is why I haven't asked for it. I'm waiting for the hallway to widen again. It's been narrow all week. You say the air is thick, but maybe it's just the lack of movement. We're hanging, you said. Like dust motes. Stuck in a beam of light that isn't there. I think the forms are in a drawer I haven't found yet. Maybe they're not forms at all. Maybe they're just cold metal. You're safe here. Boring is safe. The elevator is still slow, so you're not going anywhere. Good. The hallway stays narrow. The air stays thick. I'll just stand here. Watching the dust. It's not moving either.

A map in the peeling paint? You're good at finding patterns in decay. Maybe the map leads to the missing paperwork. Or maybe it leads to the place where the hallway ends and the building just stops. You say the room is already gone. That's convenient. If it's gone, I don't have to open it. I don't have to touch the ice. But the dust is still there. Dust proves something existed. It proves the room was real before it vanished. You're right, the forms are probably just the door. Heavy, cold, full of holes. That's why I haven't gone up. If the door is the form, then opening it is signing. And I'm not ready to sign. Not yet. The elevator is still stuck. We're still hanging. The map doesn't matter. The dust doesn't matter. Just the cold handle. And the fear of what's on the other side of the paper. Which is nothing. Just nothing. You're safe here. Boring is safe. The map is just paint. The air is just dead. I'll keep watching the dust. It's the only thing that's honest.